The Backroad Borderlands
A Solitude Somewhere Between Alberta and Saskatchewan.
Farm Country. 08/24.
Few things strike as hard and true as inspiration does. Fewer things have me slamming on the brakes, my heart beating in my ears, and turning my car around as I give in to the rush and anticipation of capturing my muse. I suppose it's like a drug.
Aside from the adrenaline rush, one of the many merits of photography is that it allows me to experience things and places and feelings I otherwise wouldn’t. It gives me a reason to stop. To look. To see. To even slam on my brakes if what caught my eye resonates enough.
During my mostly solo 5000 km drive from British Columbia to Ontario, I gave myself permission to stop whenever I wanted. To do this felt like a privilege. A gift even. Most days, I'm caught up in the rat race, with every decision a testament to my productivity. Rarely can I reason with myself to slow down enough to simply be. There's no time to live when you're consumed by getting ahead. Isn't the saying, "Everybody dies, but not everyone truly lives"?
Living turned out to be falling in love with the melancholy of the abandoned backroad borderlands I found myself in. The backroads gave me an opportunity, and it quickly became my preferred route.
There is so much beauty and peace to be found in things long abandoned. In farmhouses, still standing tall, though weary and alone and long since called a home. In rusted-out trucks, skeletons of what they once were, grounded in the earth like the bones of the badlands. And evidently, built for target practice. Even the few animals that I crossed seemed to speak in hushed whispers. Be it the soft coos of the pigeons, the silent flight of the barn owl overhead, or the gentle nickering of the horses. These places overflow with a particular quiet, a solitude that you can only hear and feel in the country.
I remember thinking I could have spent all my days here. Getting lost in the stories written on the surface and spoken in the silence of these forgotten lands. Time itself seemed different, holding still, yet an hour still passing within the span of a minute. I'm grateful I allowed myself to stop and slow down. To listen. There's something old, innate and powerful in these simple things. Maybe it's simply a reminder of what it's like to be human.
KLP
Entry 1. Written 01/25
